


Eating Food in Different Places

by Argyle



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the Looking Glass (it's a living), and what Hatter found there (good nosh).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating Food in Different Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelgazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/gifts).



The world was weird, yeah? One day a fellow could be quite sure of his surroundings - the location in which he had, over time, over _years_ , carefully crafted an empire of if not sizable, at least interesting proportions - and the next... Well, and the next he’d land out on his arse, clear as you liked, nought a teabag to his name.

There was a word to describe the sort of soul who waited with open arms on the other end.

It wasn’t _charitable_. After all, Hatter had made a neat bit of business being that very sort. And up until recently, business was good.

*

“Kung Pao Chicken,” Hatter said, definitively. He always fancied a bit of mayhem with his meals.

Alice sniffed. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Whyever not?”

“It’s spicy.”

“I like spices. Cinnamon, tarragon, gingers...” He smiled, seeing her eyes begin a slow sweep northward, and retaliated with a squeeze to her thigh. “Oi. And brunettes.”

“It’s your funeral,” said Alice. Then she huddled back over the menu. That was the thing about this world: there was so much _reading_ to do. Signs, calling cards, people. Especially people. (Alice had half-nelsoned him into agreeing to stop calling them Oysters.) People, who could at once be kind and logical and absolutely, indisputably, barkingly sane.

And beautiful.

Whereas in Wonderland, everyone was an exacted ball of, well, whatever: one was unkind _or_ illogical. Certainly insane. But most of all, an essence. Which was why, of course, Hatter’s tea shop had always bustled; who indeed wouldn’t queue up for the opportunity to be somebody new?

*

To begin with, Hatter knew Alice's world like he knew his right hand. Which is to say this: he was sure of its ability to cause destruction.

For one thing, there were automobiles everywhere, all of them zipping round corners with the obvious intent to strike, maim, and possibly discombobulate him each time he nipped down to the shops for bread and butter.

But he also knew her world like this: with the familiarity that comes after years of use. However occasional. He'd had a flat let under the name David Milliner, paid in cash yearly by post, for nigh on a decade. It wasn't anything gorgeous. It was just an ace he kept close to his heart – a flotation device, if you will, to be used in the event of a water landing. A means of perpetuation should the whole Resistance thing go pear-shaped.

He told Alice this, basically. And she told Hatter to buy some dishes.

*

The trip to the Museum of Natural History was Alice's idea. "It'll be educational," she deadpanned. "You'll get to see what _real_ things look like."

Hatter saw she hadn't meant anything by it, couldn't possibly have chosen to imply that everything he knew was, by proxy, fictional. But he made a great show of being offended. Slouched his shoulders; stroked the brim of his hat (a smart fedora done up in gabardine, because some habits are worth keeping); knit his brow with practiced ease.

"I'll have you know," he said, and leaned close, "I've always been a realist."

And later, standing before the 'Mammals of South America' exhibit: "In the old days, we would have called this inhumane. You say it's meant to entertain? Stuffed furry things?"

"Not entertain, really," said Alice. A shrug. "My dad brought me here a lot. I think he wanted me to know what was out there. I guess I've kept up with it. Sometimes, I bring a book and find a spot to sit and just think. It's been ages since I spent time really _looking_ at the displays—I mean, I knew what was behind the glass, right? But there was a time when by sight, I could come up with the names for most of the birds of England."

"That's an accomplishment," said Hatter, meaning it.

"Let's just say I had unique skills for a girl of nine."

After a while, they wandered into the cafeteria, bought chocolate ices from a vending machine, and sat together on a too-small bench beneath the arched neck of an animatronic dinosaur.

Alice's mouth was cold on his own, and sweet.

*

When it happened, it happened like this: slowly, like treacle down an unclothed table, like summers when you’re a kid, something that lasts forever just because you know it will, like waking after a long sleep only to find it’s still Sunday morning, and haven’t we all day to enjoy this?

But Hatter had long been a man of patience.

Alice was sharp in the right places, and smooth as polished stone in others. Through her there ran long draughts of sinewed strength. Hatter pushed his hand through her hair; he touched the nape of her neck and ran a thumb over her chin, her lips; he held her to him, but couldn’t be certain, not really, not worth betting on, that it wasn’t she who held him to her.

So this was it. This was what he had for so long brokered: heat and breath and the feeling of fullness.

This was what the tea shop denizens so craved. This was what they bargained for.

And all of it was Alice, Alice of glow and running and very wet dresses.

Also: Alice of breakfast. While Hatter dozed off again, she'd brought up soft-boiled eggs and thin-sliced toast, cut apples and yoghurt, and simple, divine tea. With milk. And no napkins.

"Sorry," she said. "You're just going to have to be careful. I don't like crumbs in my bed."

"So say the pink wafer flakes across the coverlet," said Hatter.

"I didn't mean I don't like a _snack_ in bed."

"Yeah?"

Before he had time to set his cup and saucer aside on the nightstand, she was mussing his hair, her long fingers drawing it back and out from his temples.

Alice whispered, the word hot on his throat, "Sometimes."

*

"So, David. I hear Alice is teaching you judo," said Carol, spooning out three servings of pudding.

"A little," Hatter admitted. "In fits and dizzy-spells."

"He's a quick study," Alice added. She caught Hatter's eye. Then her gaze dropped slightly lower to the coat-clad bruise which had risen on Hatter's shoulder after their last session.

Or that's what Hatter assumed she was smirking about. Yeah, he was still a bit sore, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit – admit in front of Alice's mother – it had not only been his own fault, but indeed was the result of a half-formed lark that he attempted to walk on his hands clear across the dojo. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. And Hatter had had a mother, once. As he recalled, they were quite judgmental types.

"Well. Alice has her work cut out for her," he said.

Carol nodded. "Alice's last boyfriend wasn't a bad fighter, either."

"Mom—"

"I just wonder if there's a trend."

Hatter swallowed down a forkful of pudding. "I know a little bit about Jack," he said. "It turns out we do have a few things in common... apart from extracurricular activities, as it were."

"We're not going to talk about Jack," said Alice. She looked at Carol. "Okay?"

"Fine, fine." Carol laughed a little. And then: "I just like seeing you happy."

"I'm happy."

"Because after your father left, it's been up to me to—"

"This is delicious," Hatter cut in. "As a man who knows his sweets, I must say it's among the best I've had since I came through—"

"—across—" said Alice.

"—from abroad." Hatter smiled. "On business."

"Thank you, David." Carol touched his hand, reassuringly. "Are the markets treating you well?"

"Oh, it's been an adventure."

"And the forecast?"

"Um. More adventure?"

*

The bit about Hatter being a construction worker? Not necessarily untrue. He always did like to build and rebuild things, be it a stack of tea biscuits, a trod-on chapeau, or an empire of if not sizable, at least interesting proportions.

The people of the world required wares, and who was he to prevent them from demanding his services? He wasn't anyone, that's who.

*

Hatter didn't have a box to put it in, so he wrapped it in newspaper and tied the whole thing with a bit of string. It didn't look half unattractive, though his hands were still smudged red with newsprint when he held it out to her.

"What's the occasion?" Alice said, a little skeptically.

"Does a man need an occasion to give a gift?"

Alice tilted her head.

"To his—uh. Friend." A toothy flash of smile said the rest.

"I guess not."

"Good. If you'll do the honors."

Alice did. Very carefully, first unknotting the string with the tips of her fingers, and then turned it over to fold back the paper. The she stopped. "You kept it?"

"Yeah," said Hatter. "May I?"

Alice hesitated. Then she handed over the careworn velvet jacket. Hatter helped her into it, and after a moment, looked over her shoulder into the mirror beside them.

"Do you miss it?" she asked, and met his eye.

"Well, I always thought it suited you."

*

There was a sign in Second Street which read as follows:

 _Hatter's Tea Shop_

And in smaller letters underneath:

 _Specialising in Exotic Brews and Worldly Affections_

Then below that:

 _From Assam C.T.C. to Yerba Mate_

And after, in slightly larger letters:

 _Est. 1865_


End file.
